


Interior

by sparklebitca



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Hogwarts Era, Longing, M/M, pre-OotP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-10-07 13:03:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17366360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparklebitca/pseuds/sparklebitca
Summary: Draco contemplates his future vis-a-vis Harry Potter





	Interior

**Author's Note:**

> written around 2004

He has painted these scenes in his head, sharp brush-dabs of inevitability. Their castled microcosm of a universe has a tendency to tighten and turn circumstances, spiraling them into finely-tuned tensions that have had him thrumming for years. He is almost as unconcerned with the how as he was with the when and the why.

He expects Potter’s mouth to radiate heat, to be warm and firm against his own, a soft, wet questing tongue that would pause before slipping quietly between his lips. He expects a tender curve of the neck, the fine jaw line, turning up and angled slightly, shadowed hollows asking to be licked and maybe kissed. He expects, perhaps imagines, the flutter of fingers along his chest and his collarbone, arms lifting to curve around his shoulders and the nape of his neck, drawing him in like a timid undertow, silent and irresistible. He expects the delicacy of structure and bone to carry over in the kiss, gawkish fragility underscored by clumsy emotion.

He does not expect ferocity, but if it meets him, he will recognize its impetus and respond in kind. He will meet bite with bite, hot breath expelled from one set of lungs and sucked greedily into another. He will strain against bruising hands that catch his upper arms, tension throughout his neck and back, thrust forward, snarling into Potter’s mouth as that clenching thrill runs down his body, any words he might speak crushed under hard and angry lips. He will twist, sweaty and devouring, and feel his skin pulse under the rough, hungry touch, the revulsion and attraction swirling blood-red behind his eyelids.

Love and hate are flip-sides of passion, and Harry Potter is nothing if not passionate.

He can picture the slow entanglement of their limbs, the jigsaw puzzle of knee and elbow, the soft sweep of hair over bare skin. The confident, unhurried desire, the brush of fingers and the light palm-strokes of a steady hand. He can picture the slow flush rising, pale blossoms of heat against milky veins, fingertips tracing fervently, with reverent intensity, over and over and down, and there, and yes, god yes, and a hitch in the chest, a swift intake of breath, eyes easing shut, lashes dark against a cheek, flickering, sweet.

He can see it violent, without apology or explanation, a sharp punch to the gut doubling him over, then a fist in his hair, a growl to pull him upright. Rage flooding his body until the world staggers, and suddenly the blunt heel of a hand pressing between his legs and fingers working, pushing, breathing heavy in the cold air of the corridor. He can see it, his head tossed back, throat gasping under the rake of teeth, his hips shoved forward, cock screaming under the pressure, thudding, until his head hits the wall and he opens his mouth in a mute howl.

And of course, it will always come as a surprise to Potter, whichever outcome is arbitrarily chosen by whatever powers of fate determine these things.

Potter might engage him in verbal foreplay, parrying barbs and blocking thrusts of insinuation. Potter will match insult for insult, first snapping, then cursing, then screaming in near-wanton loathing, until acknowledgment slips unbidden from his mouth and catches them both off-guard, and Potter will look ill, and flee back to the safety of his rooms.

Potter might sit up in bed one night, drenched in sweat and uncomfortably sticky, wide-eyed in horror at the memory of a filthy dream, and hug his arms in denial around his still shuddering traitor of a body, and wish it all away before lying back down and beginning, almost absent-mindedly, to trail his hand down his stomach.

Potter might outfly him, a furious Seekers’ battle, down and dirty far above the pitch, diving and feinting, and then, for some reason, fainting. And Potter, shocked at his fall, chasing, bent low over his broomstick, white-knuckled hand outstretched, ever the Seeker, seeking him, to claim him from the fatal ground, all dismay and despair at the fact that he cares.

Potter might stare at him across the Great Hall, stare until holes burn into his back, stare until he is forced to turn around, stare until even his friends notice, stare and stare with a flustered, sick longing in the hallways, in the classrooms, until confrontation leads to quiet, painful confession, which will redeem them both, a nauseating redemption that neither can comprehend.

They might become friends next week, Potter seducing him from his father’s side. They might never become friends, enemies across the battlefield. They might meet after the war, Potter triumphant and world-weary, himself a broken and wasted shell of the boy he used to be. Or they might meet after the war, Potter chained and bled at his command. Or they might not meet after the war, the Hogwarts commencement ceremony the last opportunity before intrigue and competition gave way to intrigue and casualties.

Or Longbottom might kill them later today in Potions. The future is always uncertain.

But that doesn’t change the fact of them; at least, not for him. Their rivalry is a clause in his definition; he doesn’t dare to imagine that it wouldn’t play a part in Potter’s. He isn’t stupid; he understands his own insignificance next to the shining brightness of Harry Potter’s possibility. It’s just that . . . yes, he does want to be part of that brilliance, that luminosity, whether adding to it or detracting from it, he wants to affect it, and he’s scared he never will. These years are so important to him, important in a way that Potter couldn’t possibly understand. The Dark Mark looms above him; can Potter understand that? His father looms above him; Potter hasn’t even a father. Expectation weighs him down, heavy and burdensome, and he longs to defy it, or for some glory in the submission, or something, for godsakes, something more than simple, page-written destiny. He hates destiny, having been force-fed his own since forever.

He doesn’t want anything written in the stars. He wants to write in the stars all by himself. He’s always been told that he can do this; he’s never believed it until he realized.

It’s not love; it’s not hate. It’s simply Harry Potter. And no matter what he paints in vivid colors in his mind, no matter what he expects or predicts or sees, it will never be his constellation. He will only be the shining side note.

He hopes he still has it in him to shine.


End file.
